


Shades of Winter

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: 1980s, 80s hair, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Horror, Cults, F/F, F/M, Ghost Sex, Heavy Angst, Historical References, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Pansexual Character, Paranormal, Past Character Death, Polyamory, Talking To Dead People, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Worldbuilding, that deserves its own warning, the seeds are very dead and very thirsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15461835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: The Project at Eden's Gate burned to the proverbial and literal ground during the winter of 1986, and the community of Fall's End was desperate to sweep the ashes under the rug and close the door on the ghosts of the past. Eden's Gate was almost forgotten; a footnote of a footnote in Hope County history.After thirty-two years, the ghosts aren't content with being ignored anymore.





	1. Virgil Minkler has a break-in

**Author's Note:**

> hello yes, this fic idea came at me out of left fuckin' field while i was in the shower, and i was p much possessed to write it. hopefully someone out there likes it, if only because there's ghost seeds with 1980s fashion. that's a draw, i think.
> 
> and yeah, there's ghost smashin. my girl deserves nothing but the best of the ghost horizontal tango.
> 
> (also lmao you can probably tell i was losing some steam at the end. it's like 1 in the morning and i'm just excited to get this up and out there tbh.)

It’s seven o’clock on a chill November Sunday morning, and Sheriff Earl Whitehorse is looking at a crime scene. Or, it _may_ be a crime scene, just as much as it may be some stupid kids’ idea of a prank. The only crime he’s seeing is a breaking and entering attempt that didn’t get very far beyond the _breaking_ stage, judging by the pathway of shimmering broken glass that leads from the front doors of the Hope County Museum to the rotating wire metal display of commemorative and kitschy postcards in the gift shop.  
  
Virgil Minkler is a nervous wreck, and Whitehorse knows that he’s circled around the entire museum at least three times, trying to find a single thing out of place. Pratt, bless him, has tried to calm the man down, reassuring him that everything is under control.  
  
“Oh, I _told_ Tracey that we should have put the fossils in a case!” Virgil says, not for the first time. He paces from the cash register over to the small bronze cast statue of Clutch Nixon that serves as the lobby centerpiece. “Those thieves could have taken _anything_ from there! What if— Oh God, Earl, what if they had taken the nanotyrannus tooth?”  
  
Whitehorse tries not to sigh too hard, but it’s getting difficult. Pratt’s already past that point, running a hand through his hair so that it sticks up a little on one side. “They didn’t,” he says tiredly, dropping his hands to bury them in the pockets of his coat. “Everything in the collection is exactly where it was before.”  
  
Either Virgil doesn’t hear him or he’s too nervous to care. “We’re going to have to buy a new security system. I should have listened to Jerome when he suggested it! And a security guard. We’ll need a night security person.”  
  
“Virg,” Whitehorse starts, putting one hand up placatingly. “I don’t think you have to take it that far. It’s just been one break-in, and it looks like they didn’t take anything.”  
  
The look Virgil gives him is a clear cross between weariness and sheepishness. “It’s not the first time, Earl,” he replies. “It’s just the first time I reported it.”  
  
Pratt and Whitehorse exchange a look of surprise, although Pratt’s is a little more nonplussed. Then, they look back to Virgil who shifts uncomfortably and stares down at the broken glass beneath his loafers.  
  
“The first couple times, I thought it might’ve been one of our employees. I’d get here in the morning and the front door would be open, or one of the storage doors. I kept thinking it was someone being careless, but no matter who I asked, no one would admit to it,” he explains. “Things would get moved around, too. One morning, I came in and all of the baseball cards were scattered everywhere. I just...” He clears his throat and shakes his head. “I didn’t think anyone around here would do something like this.”  
  
“It happens,” Whitehorse says, trying to sound empathetic. “Hell, Larry Parker gets stuff stolen all the time. And just last month, someone went and opened all the chicken coops at the Ferguson place.”  
  
Pratt grunts. “That was a mess,” he says under his breath.  
  
Virgil glances between them, his expression close to helpless. “But the _museum,_ Earl?”  
  
“Probably just some dumb kids,” Whitehorse concludes, mirroring Pratt and shoving his hands in his pockets. Then, he smiles. “You remember what Sharky Boshaw was like as a teenager.”  
  
That doesn’t do much to soothe Virgil. He’s still as nervous as a spooked horse. He sighs and looks at the mess on the floor, and Whitehorse can completely understand why he’d be anxious. It looks worse than it actually is, and for a small town like Fall’s End in a county where everyone knows nearly everyone else, it’s the sort of thing that sets people’s nerves on edge.  
  
Whitehorse puts his hand on Virgil’s shoulder reassuringly. “Tell ya what. You get that new security system Jerome was talkin’ about and me n’ Pratt will help you set it up.”  
  
He hears Pratt audibly balk at this, but ignores him.  
  
Virgil nods, pauses, thinks, and nods again. “And the night security?”  
  
“If you still want to, Virgil,” Whitehorse replies with a shrug and a tired smile. “The taxpayers are the ones payin’ for it, after all.”  
  
\- - -  
  
Hope County has one of the smallest population densities in the entire state of Montana. Supposedly, there are one and a half people for every square mile. Cody’s not sure how half a person could have a decent life, but as she drives down one of the dirt roads leading into Fall’s End, she thinks that maybe that point-five denominator isn’t wrong.  
  
Compared to Missoula, Fall’s End and the county on a whole is as desolate and backwater as it gets. Cody’s counted _maybe_ three houses between the last highway exit and the town. One of those houses might even be abandoned. Farms surround the town on all sides, and the only hope for anything like cell phone signal is a single red and white radio tower which is the last standing defense between her suffering 4G network and total loss. The radio’s already a lost cause, as the last Top 40 station crackled out about eight miles back, and the only stations left are twangy country, oldies, and one bizarre rock station that can’t seem to decide if it’s mostly alternative or thrash metal.  
  
And this is where she’s moved to.  
  
Her truck bounces and stutters on the potholes that pock the packed dirt road. The last few boxes from the Missoula apartment bounce with it, and not for the first time, Cody worries that her dishware is going to end up in crumbles by the time she pulls in to her driveway. Fortunately, she hasn’t had much to move that didn’t require a single sixteen foot Uhaul and two pickup truck trips, and aside from some of her grandmother’s china and her laptop, hardly anything she owns is expensive.  
  
The dirt road gives way to relatively new asphalt and Cody lets out a relieved sigh on behalf of her dishes. Fall’s End comes into view through the black pines, and Cody can already make out the shape of the museum, seeing as how it’s the tallest building in town.  
  
Virgil Minkler, mayor as well as curator of the museum, told her to stop by at any point in the day to pick up her keys. So far, her meetings with the mayor have been relatively short and sweet, mostly through the good graces of Tracey, head of the museum’s staff. Tracey seems to have a sixth sense for when Virgil’s ready to launch on a tangent. Four times now, she’s saved Cody from having to hear about the illustrious history of Fall’s End’s pumpkin production numbers (“Highest in the tri-county!”) or the RBI of the Hope County Cougars’ top star (“Nineteen in one game! The MLB should have taken him if they didn’t have their heads so far up their rears!”). Hopefully, picking up a keyring won’t take a huge chunk of her day so she can get to unpacking.  
  
Cody turns left off Kellett Loop, and the sparse gray countryside gives way to something almost like civilization.  
  
Fall’s End doesn’t really have a downtown so much as it has two neat rows of buildings on either side of Main Street. The museum, the former Fall’s End courthouse, dominates the northern row. Only two cars are parked in front of it, and Cody recognizes one of them as Virgil’s. She parks the pickup beside it before turning off the engine and hopping out, pausing to look up at the imposing brick face of her new workplace.  
  
Cody knows through the two tours that Virgil insisted on her taking that the courthouse is one of the few original buildings left in Fall’s End. Granted, that’s a _very_ optimistic way of putting it, since the interior of the museum is relatively new, and from what Tracey’s said, an extension was added on in the late 1970s, presumably as a recreation center. There was a fire in the mid 80s, which meant even more reconstruction. Honestly, at this point, Cody thinks only the cornerstone and the cast iron clock face might be original.  
  
She walks up the steps just as a late autumn mist begins to fall, frosting the black fabric of her hoodie. With a shiver, she gratefully opens the doors into the museum, relishing in the blast of heat that greets her.  
  
“Hi! Welcome to— _Oh!_ ” exclaims a teenage boy at the gift shop counter. Cody recognizes him as Wheaty, who Tracey pointed out in passing as he was getting out of his car for his shift. He’s dressed in a plain black button-up with a small plastic name tag reading ‘HI MY NAME IS (ASK ME ABOUT BECOMING A DONOR!) _WHEATY_ ’. He’s wearing a dark green trucker hat flipped backwards, and his grin is so wide that he looks like he’s seconds from laughing. “Oh man, you’re the night girl! Sorry, I had no idea you were coming!”  
  
Cody smiles back at him as she wipes some of the water off her hoodie. “It’s cool. I’m Cody, by the way,” she replies before reaching a sleeve-covered hand out to him.  
  
He takes it and gives it an exaggerated shake. “Wheaty. I mean, if you couldn’t tell by the tag.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Wheaty,” she says with a smile. “Sorry for dropping in unannounced, though. Virgil just said I could pick up my keys whenever.”  
  
“Oh, absolutely! He’s on the phone right now, but he’ll be down here in a sec,” Wheaty replies, gesturing at the courthouse stairs. He rests his hands on the counter before giving Cody a conspiratorial smile. “So, you on the run or what?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Tracey said you’re moving from Missoula. Did you break the law and have to go on the lam? ‘Cause no one moves _to_ Fall’s End, man. Unless,” he says, pauses, and wiggles his brow. “They’re running from their past.”  
  
It takes a second, but Cody grins right back at him before leaning in, motioning for him to get closer. He obliges with a laugh. “This stays between you and me,” she stage-whispers. “But I robbed a stagecoach just outside Missoula, and when I had to face off with the sheriff and his deputy... Well, you know what I did?”  
  
“Oh man. What?”  
  
“I shot the sheriff.”  
  
“And the deputy?”  
  
“Didn’t shoot him. Totally innocent.”  
  
Wheaty snorts before leaning back and giving Cody an approving nod. “You’re gonna fit in just fine, night shift lady.”  
  
Right at that moment, Virgil comes down the stairs, making some serious tutting noises before he catches sight of Cody. Then, he lights up and takes the last few stairs so quickly that Cody has very real visions of a fall risk. “Miss Oakley!” he says. “I didn’t expect you so soon!”  
  
“I’m taking the last couple boxes to my new place, and I thought I’d stop by and grab the keys, if that’s okay.”  
  
“Fine, that’s just fine!” Virgil says happily before turning back towards the stairs. “Come on up to my office and I’ll get you all set up and give you your schedule.”  
  
Cody gives Wheaty another grin and a wave which he eagerly returns, and then follows Virgil up the stairs.  
  
Virgil’s office is to the immediate right of the stairwell, and the newly-minted security office is just to its left. Left of that is the archway that leads to the second floor of the museum, completely dedicated to Fall’s End’s more recent history. Virgil spent a good ten minutes giving Cody every last schematic of one of Clutch Nixon’s motorcycles before Tracey derailed him by saying the copier was out of toner. Regardless, the second floor _is_ interesting, and Cody resolves to check it out with more attention when she gets a chance.  
  
She follows Virgil into his office, which is a mess of papers, books, and old photographs. There are two half-full coffee cups under an ancient banker’s lamp on his desk, and one important-looking document has a coffee ring over what looks like some kind of government agency seal. What space remains in the office is either taken up by a full bookshelf, posters, or more photographs. A very enthusiastic philodendron cascades over the edge of the bookshelf, happily alighting on every surface it can find. Somewhere, unseen, a stereo is playing a muffled Joni Mitchell song.  
  
It’s as claustrophobic as it is cozy, and Cody decides she likes it.  
  
Virgil digs through one of the desk drawers before he fishes out the key ring. He holds it up, and Cody’s surprised to see that there are only five keys on it. Virgil must see the confusion on her face, so he smiles and points to each. “Front door, rear door, storage room, bathrooms, and the key for both offices,” he explains.  
  
“I thought there were two storage rooms,” Cody says, thinking back on Tracey’s behind the scenes tour.  
  
“Oh, there is,” Virgil says matter-of-factly, handing the keys over to her. “But we only use the one. Honestly, we don’t have enough to fill both rooms at the moment, so really that second room is only good for collecting dust. Maybe one of these days, we’ll get to use it!”  
  
She raises an eyebrow. “And if we have to get in there?”  
  
“Tracey and I each have a key, but I doubt you’ll need to use it,” Virgil explains, patting his own pocket for good measure. “Now, did Tracey get around to showing you the security cameras?”  
  
“Only a little. I had to head out before she got a chance to show me much.”  
  
“Let’s go have a look, then! I don’t want to drop you into this blind. That wouldn’t be fair, huh?”  
  
They head into the security office, which has very clearly been quickly repurposed. Two old desks have been moved to the back of the narrow room, and the third, clearly newer desk has been designated the security desk. Two sleek black monitors show several black and white views of locations around the museum. Slowly, each screen sweeps back and forth.  
  
Virgil sits in the seat which someone’s labeled _THE HELM_ on a strip of masking tape. He squints at the monitors before pointing to each display. “Alright, so there’s the lobby and the gift shop, and here’s the east wing with the prehistory and indigenous displays,” he says before motioning towards the blurry image of a Conestoga wagon. “And over here is the pioneer exhibit in the west wing. Bathrooms are right at the back of the exhibit, in case you need them.”  
  
He moves over to the other monitor and points to the image of Clutch Nixon’s motorcycle. “Here’s the east half of the modern display, and there’s the west half. Um, let’s see. Stairwell, obviously. And the one down in the corner is the storage hall. There’s actually two cameras down there, so the view alternates. You can change it manually if you need to.”  
  
The storage hall is a narrow concrete passage in the basement, which Cody remembers from Tracey’s tour. The hall is a musty, damp corridor, and one that Cody hopes she doesn’t have to see much of. On the monitor, it shows the hallway from the right angle, where the active storage room is. After a few seconds, the view flips to the left angle, and Cody can see the doors to both rooms.  
  
“And that about covers it!” Virgil announces, patting the left monitor like a proud father. “These are _brand_ new. Just bought them a few weeks ago! Hopefully they don’t give you too much trouble. If they do, I left the number to tech support in the desk drawer. Although honestly, Wheaty can probably fix them better than anyone over the phone can.”  
  
He goes on to say something else, but Cody’s attention is caught by something flickering in the lower right storage room monitor. When the camera switches to the left angle, it looks like someone’s standing beside the active storage room door. They’re just a vague shape from that angle, and when the camera switches to the right, the shape is gone.  
  
Virgil stops talking and looks up at her, then at the monitors. “Something wrong?”  
  
She doesn’t reply right away, instead waiting for the camera to switch again. It does, and the space beside the storage room door is empty. “I thought...” she starts, but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Her heart feels like it’s trying to block her throat. “Nevermind,” she says.  
  
“Oh, did you see something?” Virgil asks, tapping the monitor like it’s going to make a difference. Then, he laughs and leans back in the chair. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, we’ve been working through all sorts of issues with this stuff. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to send Wheaty in with a step ladder to move wires around or do this and that. Poor kid about jumped out of his skin when he checked up on these and a moth landed on the camera.”  
  
The figure beside the door didn’t look anything like a moth, but Cody’s way more eager to pretend the best rather than go into a new job thinking the worst. She nods, forcing the most easygoing smile she can muster, and resolutely doesn’t look at the monitor again.  
  
After he locks up the security office, they go back to Virgil’s office where he hands her a handwritten sheet, divided into neat timetables. “So Monday through Thursday, you come in at ten and work until four-thirty. Usually I’m here late or Tracey is, and occasionally, we’ll have events or parties where we rent out the museum for a few hours. We’ll call you ahead of time if that happens,” Virgil explains, pointing at the row of phone numbers at the bottom of the page. “If you need anything, there’s all of our numbers. Honestly, you can get in contact with just about anyone in Fall’s End just by calling one of us,” he says with a laugh.  
  
“And you don’t need anyone on the weekends?”  
  
“Not really. We’re not open on Sunday at all, and Friday night is when we’re here the latest, or we have our events.”  
  
Cody nods along, taking the schedule and glancing it over.  
  
Then, Virgil clears his throat. “Uh, one more thing you might wanna consider,” he says as he sits down in his office chair. “It can get a little spooky in here at night. Y’know, old building, floors settling and creaking, things like that. There’s no harm in keeping some of the lights on, and we have a speaker system that Wheaty hooked up so he could play his music at the front desk. You’re more than welcome to play your own music while you work!”  
  
He says it like it’s a job perk on par with health benefits and a dental plan, rather than talking about a job that she picked up out of desperation. Even so, she laughs. “So you don’t mind if I blast heavy metal at top volume?”  
  
“Well, more than welcome to play it so long as the neighbors don’t complain,” Virgil amends.  
  
Fortunately, Virgil doesn’t try to start on anymore historical lectures about motorcycles or the very sizable dinosaur coprolite fossil that Tracey takes particular pride in. Or maybe Tracey is secretly the saving grace once again, as before Virgil can say much else before he escorts Cody back down to the lobby, the phone on his desk rings. Cody takes that as the miraculous out that she knows it is. She gives Virgil a short wave and mouths ‘thank you!’ which he responds to with an apologetic smile and a thumbs up, and she’s down the stairs before he’s more than two sentences into his conversation.  
  
She folds up the schedule and tucks it in her front hoodie pocket as she walks by Wheaty who raises an eyebrow while cocking a smile. “Thought I should tell you that some lawmen came by while you were up in the office. I managed to set them on the wrong trail for ya.”  
  
“Oh man, I owe you big time,” Cody responds with mock solemnity.  
  
“Mmm. That was worth at least one pizza from the Spread Eagle,” he replies, nodding with a thoughtful expression. “Double pepperoni with mushrooms, and maybe a two liter of Coke. Just for me.”  
  
“Oooh, you drive a hard bargain.”  
  
“As your professional partner-in-cahoots, I expect nothing less for rescuing you from law enforcement.”  
  
Cody can’t help herself and smiles, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out the rain-flecked glass of the front door where the neon outline of the Spread Eagle’s logo flickers. “Done and done, then. But mostly because I need to get in good with the local bartender,” she says.  
  
“Oh, Mary May? She’s gonna love you,” Wheaty says. “You get in _real_ good with her and she’ll recruit people to help you move your stuff and unpack if you want. No one knows how to say ‘no’ to her.”  
  
“You know what? That sounds pretty legit. I’m keeping that in mind,” Cody says. Then she digs her car keys out of her pocket and gives Wheaty another wave. “Alright, next time I see you, it’ll be with pizza in hand.”  
  
“Later, night shift lady!” Wheaty cheers as he watches her leave.  
  
As Cody gets back into the pickup, she doesn’t see the look of doubt cross Wheaty’s face.  
  
And within an hour, as she’s struggling to assemble some Scandinavian minimalist furniture in her new home, she’s already forgotten the figure by the storage room door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


	2. The drink witch and the night shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy howdy do i love exposition or what? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ and in case it needed to be mentioned, since the cult happened in the 1980s, there are people who are alive in this that aren't in-game. i don't remember too much from absolution (except john's model plane room lmao) so mi scusi if i hecked up the fairgraves. also, fall's end has more stuff in it, mostly because i needed a bigger sandbox.
> 
> and i promise most of the early exposition's about done. scary stuff does happen.
> 
> (and thank you for all the kind feedback. ;w; i'm going to get to responding to all of the comments ASAP. hopefully you enjoy this chapter as well!)

It’s half past five o’clock, and Fall’s End sits in the long purple shadows of the Whitetails, the sun just a golden suggestion on the other side of the peaks. Cody walks down Main Street, feeling every part a true Montana mountain dweller with the collar of her red flannel shirt flipped up to protect her neck against the wind. Her hands are shoved deep in the pockets of her black parka, watching the wind play with the dust-like snow that came down earlier in the afternoon, sending it spiraling like smoke over the sidewalk.  
  
It’s Saturday night, two nights before her first shift at work, and aside from Virgil’s oft-lauded Harvest Festival, it’s about as busy in Fall’s End as it’s ever going to be. Cody walks through beams thrown from headlights of half a dozen ancient pickup trucks parked in diagonals, hears the constant low chatter of gruff voices talking about roads closing before the month is out or how the hunting up near the lumber mill isn’t too bad except that some of the grizzlies haven’t started hibernating yet. Once she gets closer to the Spread Eagle, she hears the low guttering of motorcycles and smells cigarette smoke and greasy grill food. It’s familiar, at least, since it’s the same series of smells and sounds that can be found in nearly any small mountain town. It makes her feel a little more at home.  
  
The Spread Eagle announces itself in a wash of neon light, cast off by a bikini-clad angel mounting an outline of Montana. The E of Eagle flickers and buzzes erratically.   
  
Outside, there are the usual go-tos of any small town bar, so Cody skirts around bikers with Marlboros on their lips, and side-steps a giggling older lady hanging off the shoulder of a hot young twenty-something who looks like he might be just out of college. Across the street, the dark windows of the courthouse and the flood-lit clock face seem to glare down at their neighbor in condescension, but Cody ignores it as another young man grins and holds open the screen door for her.   
  
Inside, the air is warm and scented with a dozen dinner orders, and Bruce Springsteen’s voice scrapes across synthesizers in time with a very drunk man’s flattering rendition, “ _You can’t start a fiiiiire without a spark! This gun’s for hiiiiire, even if we’re just dancin’ in the daaaark!_ ”  
  
Cody wedges her way through crowds of people clustered around tables and barstools, but one thing she notices is that unlike bars in Missoula, people actually seem to notice her and smile apologetically as they back up to let her by. One woman even pats her on the arm as she passes and cheerfully chirps, “Sorry, sweetheart!” like they’ve known each other forever. Cody can’t help but smile back.  
  
She finally makes her way to the bar, where a young blonde woman, presumably the famous help-wrangling Mary May, slides up and down the bar with shotglasses of whiskey, sweating bottles of brightly labeled IPAs, and a rainbow of cocktails. Then, without missing a beat, she drops into a conversation with someone sitting at the bar like they were never interrupted. She’s all laughter and cocky grins and slaps on the arm accompanied by, “You ol’ sunuvabitch!” that’s said with nothing but warmth. She pauses once to pull an elastic hair tie off her wrist and tie her hair back into a messy bun, and in doing so, she finally sees Cody. Like everyone else so far, her reaction is like seeing an old friend for the first time in years.  
  
“Well, hey! ‘Bout time you finally came in!” Mary May says with a smile, gesturing at an empty bar stool near the end of the bar. Then, she casts a quick look over her shoulder. “Drew! House fries, on the double!”  
  
Cody sits on the stool, laughing when a man with messy blond hair peeks around from the kitchen, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, and ducking back before Mary May looks at him again. Mary May seems to size Cody up before nodding in satisfaction, apparently happy with something she’s seen in her assessment. Without a word, she turns to the back wall and pulls down a tall bottle with a rounded bottom. After a few seconds and with only the chiming sound of ice cubes clinking together, she turns back to put a glass of Baileys over ice in front of Cody.  
  
Which is most definitely one of her favorite drinks in the world.  
  
“Holy shit,” is all Cody can say, and Mary May looks pleased with herself. “What kind of drink witch are you?”  
  
“My daddy always says that if you don’t know what kinda drink someone wants before they even sit down, you’re not a real bartender,” Mary May intones before breaking into a smile, crossing her arms on the bar and resting down on them. “And it’s on the house. Your first drink at the Spread Eagle always is. Same with the house fries.”  
  
In another show of pure witchcraft, a red plastic basket of fries appears on a ledge behind Mary May, steam curling above it. Without looking, Mary May reaches behind her and grabs them before sliding them in front of Cody. Mary May’s eyebrows are raised expectantly and her smile gets a little lopsided.   
  
“Kitchen witch,” Cody says in awe.  
  
“And then some,” Mary May replies, taking one of the fries before Cody can even think to grab one. They’re absolutely golden with grease, salt and steak seasoning bejeweling them. If the smell radiating from them is anything to go by, Cody’s about to have a religious experience. Mary May bites off half the fry before nodding to Cody. “So, you’re Virgil’s newest hire, yeah? Tracey told me about you.”  
  
“What’d Tracey say?” Cody asks. She reaches for the ketchup bottle, but Mary May stops her before she can grab it.  
  
“Try ‘em without ketchup first,” she suggests, although her tone doesn’t beg opposition. Then, she goes on with a shrug. “Anyhow, Tracey just said you got hired on as their new security. Good timin’, I guess. I thought Virgil was about to have a kitten after the last break-in. It took my dad and Drew near about half an hour to talk him down from the ceiling last time.”  
  
Cody frowns, picking up a fry and waiting for it to cool. “Last time?”  
  
Mary May seems to think on this before looking apologetic. “Shit, I don’t mean to make it sound like this happens every day. It’s only happened like, two times, and Tracey said they didn’t even take anything. We all think it was some stupid kids or a couple of out of town drunks.” She pauses before laughing and shaking her head. “God, we’re not even properly introduced and it sounds like I’m trying to scare you off. I’m Mary May Fairgrave, by the way. Resident bar witch extraordinaire,” she says, holding one hand out.  
  
Cody grins and shakes it. “Cody Oakley. Resident... I dunno, glutton for punishment, I guess. Pleased to meet you, bar witch,” she replies cheerfully. When Mary May lets her hand go, she eats her first fry. As she predicted, it _is_ a religious experience. It’s going to be a heartburn-inducing one, but if there is a French Fry Valhalla, she’s been taken there. Mary May was right to ward her off the ketchup.  
  
“Damn good, aren’t they?” Mary May extols proudly. “I’ll get you an order to take home with you later.”  
  
“Bless you,” Cody says, and that’s all she gets out before she stuffs her mouth with more fries.  
  
A few more people come up to the bar, taking away bottles of Whistling Beaver or clinking glasses of Jack Daniels. In that time, Mary May promises to recruit a few people to help Cody move her stuff around her new house. Cody also learns that Casey Fixman is the live-in cooking deity that she can thank for the fries, and Drew Fairgrave is Mary May’s brother who tends bar sometimes, but is filling in for a waitress that called in sick. Their father, Gary, owns the bar and spends the evening going from regular to regular, shooting the breeze and laughing with this sort of bellow that fills the whole room and makes everything feel warmer somehow. He slaps people on the back, and Cody hears the same fond call of “sunuvabitch” that he must share with his daughter. Eventually, Gary circles back around the bar to grab and crack open another Whistling Beaver bottle. He spots Cody only a half second after, and breaks into a wide grin.  
  
“Well, if it ain’t our new security gal. You and that fancy security system Virgil hooked up just about rocketed us right back to the twenty-first century!” he laughs as Mary May ducks under his arm to get to the taps. Gary Fairgrave is a bull of a man, and although not massively tall, his presence seems to fill the whole room. His hair is either gray with a yellow tinge from the lighting in the bar, or blond like his kids’, and he has a pair of reading glasses dangling from his shirt collar. Like everyone in Fall’s End, he approaches Cody like he has stories about her as a kid, as if she’s lived there her entire life.   
  
Cody dutifully reaches across the bar to shake his hand, and isn’t surprised to find that he has hands like bear paws, huge and warm, with a firm grip. “I’m Cody,” she greets. “And you’ve gotta be Gary.”  
  
“My reputation precedes me,” he says pleasantly, giving her hand an extra good shake. When he lets go, he looks back at the shelf like it’s a library. “Mm. Irene must’ve taken the last of that fancy RumChata business we had. You seem like a RumChata kind of gal.”  
  
If Baileys is one of her favorites, then RumChata wears the platinum and diamond crown of things she loves. She realizes that Mary May is just a witch in training, and her father is the real magician of the whole operation.   
  
“Well, we’ll get some the next time we put orders in,” Gary says with a nod. He lifts his bottle to her like a toast before taking a deep draw from it, and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll keep you in mind when we do. You’re takin’ on a tough job, protectin’ all those baseball cards and priceless bobbleheads.”  
  
“And fossilized crap,” Cody says brightly.  
  
“And fossilized crap!” Gary agrees, toasting again. “Aw, bless Virgil. He’s got a good heart. That museum’s his baby, y’know. He’s kinda taken it upon himself to preserve all of Hope County’s history, or at least the stuff he thinks matters. He rejected my proposal for a Testy Festy exhibit, though, and I don’t know who was more disappointed, me or Casey.”  
  
“I was,” grunts Casey from the kitchen. Cody hears the distinct _thwack!_ of a cleaver hitting a cutting board.  
  
Mary May maneuvers around her father to get a bottle opener before tutting, “Those darn history revisionists.”  
  
“Damn right, sweetheart! Testy Festy is at the heart of Hope County culture! Long storied history and all!”   
  
Mary May rolls her eyes fondly as she walks by her father to help out one of the bar patrons.   
  
Gary gets flagged down by another regular who greets him with a wave and a massive belch that almost shakes the glass of the windows. With a snort, Gary walks around the bar and pats Cody on the shoulder as he passes her. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around, Miss Cody. Ain’t many more places around here to get entertainment unless you set up camp on the Loop to watch Larry Parker try to get abducted by aliens.”  
  
“Thanks, Gary,” she replies with a smile. Once he’s off talking to the belcher, she finishes off the rest of the house fries in record time and gets to work on the Baileys.   
  
Mary May comes around a few more times, but as the evening wears on, the bar gets busier and busier. At some point, she’s only able to introduce people in short sentences before her attention is called somewhere else, so she points out Nick Rye (“Dumb as a bag of hammers but sweet as they come. And he’s gonna be a dad soon!”), Pastor Jerome Jeffries (“He’s only here to pick up dinner for a little old lady like Fall’s End’s own Meals on Wheels. He’s so damn nice, he makes us all look terrible.”), and the return of the older lady from outside, now introduced as Adelaide Drubman (“Oh, her latest boytoy! What’s-his-face. Xavier or something? I dunno, but he’s a yoga instructor for like all two people who do yoga around here.”)   
  
Eventually, Cody just gathers up her little styrofoam container of fries and shoulders her parka back on, giving Mary May a wave. Mary May stops mid-pour of some kind of stout from the tap and grins at her. “See you around, Cody. Hopefully that creepy courthouse doesn’t give you too much trouble!” And like some sort of overly friendly hivemind, a few more people smile at her and tell her to have a good night.   
  
Cody steps out into the chill of the night with her head buzzing and warmth flooding her, and not necessarily all of it is from the alcohol. She breathes in the chill mountain air, and gazes up at the stars shimmering in the blue-black sky. Then, her gaze drops back down to the front of the courthouse, the gilded letters sunken into the stone archway reading HOPE COUNTY MUSEUM, and the yawning blackness behind the front doors and their brand new glass.  
  
The warmth drains from her quicker than she can account for. The longer she looks at the door, the more it seems like each little pinprick of starlight fades from the sky, and the sounds fade until it’s just the insistent rattling buzz of a broken neon tube, and the only thing she can smell is something like ozone. She finds herself unable to look away, and a shiver runs through her bones like grounded lightning.  
  
Creepy courthouse. Right.  
  
It takes a seriously monumental effort to tear herself away, and she does it with an unexplainable gasp. All the sounds and every light comes back in a rush, leaving her feeling winded and dizzy.  
  
She doesn’t look at the courthouse again, but instead holds her box of fries tight and hurries home as fast as her legs can carry her.  
  
\- - -  
  
Sunday goes by without much incident. Cody spends the morning lazing around the living room, enjoying it while it’s still clean before her inevitable tendencies make a mess of it. She unpacks a few boxes, figures out the general cord setup for her TV, and flips through a few pages of the Hope County history book that Virgil gave her as a housewarming present, loftily named _Proudly We Record_ above a large official-looking stamp for the county. Tracey’s gift was a little more practical in the form of a Hope County Cougars t-shirt from the gift store and a package of pumpkin spice hot chocolate mix left over from the Harvest Festival. She enjoys both immensely as she sprawls on her couch, hot chocolate in one hand and book balanced on her lap.   
  
The book has a few glossy monochrome pictures of ranchers standing beside prize bulls, hunters presiding over oversized racks of rabbits or the massive carcass of a grizzly bear, miners bent over water troughs with pans in their hands, and the occasional photo of some stern-faced townsfolk standing in front of the general store or the saloon that would eventually become the Spread Eagle. It feels like the standard small town history lesson, and Cody thinks she could probably find an identical photograph in the history archives of Missoula or, hell, even Denver.  
  
She closes the book on a photograph of what’s now the Catholic church, whose bells ring bright and clear over the sunlit snow outside.   
  
Monday has a little more variation, if only because Cody ends up going back to sleep at three o’clock in the afternoon to get herself ready for the night shift. Her brain protests, reminding her of all the unpacked boxes, the fact that she still hasn’t set up the frame for her bed to be mounted on so that she doesn’t have to sleep on the floor, that she needs to call her parents eventually, and on and on until she literally has to put a pillow over her head to get her brain to quiet down.  
  
Restless sleep follows, full of dozing dreams of the strange sunset colors that fill her room just a little before five o’clock, and then seeing that same burnt orange color behind the doors of the courthouse. When she wakes up at fifteen after nine, she feels sluggish, like she’s having a miserable out-of-body experience without going anywhere cool. Her body goes through the motions of taking a shower and getting ready, but her mind is still somewhere near her pillow.   
  
Eventually, she’s sliding a plain black t-shirt over her head, zipping up a pair of jeans, and tugging her snow boots on. She zips her parka up to the throat and has the forethought this time to wrap herself in a red flannel scarf. Then it’s just a couple taps on the Keurig, a quick check for her keys, wallet, and phone, and she’s out the door with a full coffee mug in hand and a backpack over her shoulder. She turns up the heat in the truck as high as it will go, even though the drive isn’t even five minutes. There’s frost on the windshield, and that’s enough for her.  
  
She drives the long way around, by a neat row of houses, the remains of what might have been an ice cream shop, and one of the few stores they have in Fall’s End other than the general store. Then she turns the corner onto Main, parks in a diagonal beside Tracey’s car, and heads inside.  
  
As expected, the museum is completely empty. Since it’s after hours, the gift shop is closed up with a happy little sign propped up against the register, reading WE’LL BE BACK SOON! in painted red letters beside a smiling clock.   
  
Cody looks around the lobby briefly before she goes upstairs, and as expected, Tracey’s at Virgil’s desk, rapidly typing away on a MacBook. She glances up once, startled, before snorting and giving Cody a wave. “Morning, sunshine,” she says. “I’m just gonna be a second so make yourself at home.”  
  
“In the security room?”  
  
Tracey shrugs. “In here, if you want. It’d probably be more comfortable. If Virgil was here, he’d definitely want you over there, but I don’t really care one way or another.”  
  
It’s all the invitation Cody needs, so she sets her bag down beside the desk and sits in an overstuffed chair in the corner.   
  
The two of them sit in comfortable silence, listening to the soft hiss of some kind of jazz quartet playing on the hidden speaker. Cody looks around the room with a little more attention, noticing things like photographs pinned or taped to the walls, featuring people she’s yet to meet or may never meet. There are a few old photographs that she’s seen in the book, and a few that she hasn’t. There’s also a prominent, expensively glossy picture of someone’s cattle dog, his tongue lolling out of his mouth like he’s smiling for the camera.  
  
Then Tracey shuts her laptop with a decisive _click_ before spreading her hands on the desk and smiling up at Cody. “Alright, time for the hardest job of your life,” she says, her eyes bright.   
  
“Even harder than highway patrol?”  
  
“ _Way_ harder than highway patrol,” Tracey confirms. “Sometimes you have to do stuff like unclog a toilet, or you have to get up because the piece or trash you tried to throw away didn’t make it into the basket.”  
  
“Oh god, I’m already stressing.”  
  
“You should,” Tracey says with a nod. Then, she laughs and leans back in her chair. “Nah, this shit’s so easy you could probably just go back to sleep and nothing would happen. I’m sure Virgil told you that you can keep the lights on if you want, and Wheaty’s music setup is downstairs behind the gift shop counter. It just hooks up with USB, so that’s easy.”  
  
Cody nods and thinks of a few choice Spotify playlists she’d like. Then, she tilts her head. “Uh, quick question.”  
  
“Shoot.”  
  
“On the off chance that something _does_ happen, is there a protocol in place or do I just run out the door screaming?”  
  
Tracey laughs again, but Cody sees something else in her face, like an extra strain around her eyes. “Pretty much the latter. I mean, you were a cop, so if you wanna go full contact, go for it? The county sheriff’s friends with Virgil, so no one would press charges if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
  
“Okay. Anything else I need to know?”  
  
There’s a short, loaded silence where it looks like Tracey wants to say something, but she seems to think better of it. Finally, she shrugs and shakes her head. “Not really. I mean, if you have any questions, just text me or write them down for tomorrow. I’m up almost all night anyway, so it won’t bother me. If it’s an emergency, Virgil gave you that list of phone numbers. I mean, if you call even one person, you’ve pretty much called the whole town.”  
  
“That’s pretty much what Virgil said,” Cody replies.  
  
Tracey slides the MacBook into a backpack beside her and stands up, hefting it over her shoulder. “I guess the only other thing to say is just to make sure everything’s locked up before you leave. Virgil’s been a real hardass about that, and I can’t say I blame him. I mean, I _still_ think it was just kids, but I’d be happier knowing we didn’t give Virgil a coronary over it.”  
  
“That’s fair.”  
  
“And—” Tracey pauses again, casting a look around the tiny office with its philodendron and claustrophobic bookshelf. Finally, she looks at Cody and gives her a smile that looks a little weary. “And not much else. Just try not to burn the place down.”  
  
Cody sticks up three fingers in the scout’s honor gesture. “I didn’t get kicked out of Girl Scouts for nothing,” she says.   
  
The uneasiness in Tracey’s expression fades and is replaced with a more earnest smile. As she walks out of the office, she gives Cody’s shoulder two reassuring pats. “Here’s hoping we keep you around,” she says. Then, “I’ll lock up behind me.”  
  
“Have a good night, Tracey.”  
  
“You too.”  
  
She leaves, and not quite a minute later, Cody hears the echo of the door shutting and latching from the lobby.   
  
The silence that sinks into the museum after that is weird in that it isn’t _quite_ silence. Virgil was right that the place creaks and moans under the weight of its own age. Floorboards stutter at random, and there’s a muffled huff of the wind on the double-paned windows. When Cody steps out of the administrator’s office, her footsteps sound extra pronounced, and she’s grateful for the jazz still playing on the office’s radio.   
  
Tracey left some of the lights on for each floor, so the second floor is a play of shadows, and from the balcony overlooking the lobby, Cody can see the elongated shadow of an enormous wagon wheel from the pioneer exhibit. She hums to herself and walks around, hands in her pockets, giving herself another impromptu tour. She walks by Clutch Nixon’s motorcycle and an enormous poster of the man himself silhouetted against an enormous American flag. A helmet and a pair of embossed white leather boots are in a pair of plexiglass cases. There’s a single old fashioned television set attached to the exhibit, featuring a few black and white clips of Clutch making jumps over school buses and across ravines, and one interesting segment of him flying a crop duster through the supports of a concrete bridge.   
  
Beyond that, there’s Hope County Cougars memorabilia by the case, with signed baseballs and bats carefully protected like they’re worth their weight in _diamonds._   
  
One of the more interesting features is a small exhibit dedicated to Hope County’s involvement in the military. There’s an old M1 helmet from World War II, the words _Big Sky_ stenciled in white on the side. Beside that, there are canteens and old boots and an olive drab shoulder bag in cases. There’s a bayonet from World War I laying beneath a poster asking for people to buy war bonds. The Vietnam section is a little more involved. Underneath a plastic display card reading _The Things They Carried_ , is a row of nearly identical lighters and placards of the names of the owners beneath each one.   
  
What sticks out the most is a single photograph on a wall beside the display. It’s a black and white photo of a group of young men in uniform standing in front of what looks like a buffet table. Most of them are smiling, but a few have hazy, distant looks on their faces, or smiles that don’t quite make it to their eyes. They have their arms around each other’s shoulders, but Cody sees that the man on the farthest left side of the picture has an arm around his shoulders but no one attached to it. The last person on the left has been cut off the picture, seemingly disappearing into the wooden frame.   
  
She stares at the photo for awhile, and at the caption below that reads _Hope County’s finest! Some of our boys return from Asia!_ in neat newspaper print. She stares at the disembodied arm, and at the face of the man on the left. He’s one of those with the distant expression, eyes a little bit glazed and smile unsteady on his face.  
  
She has an impulse to turn the photograph around and see if there might be more information on the back, like a list of names, but a strange droning buzz behind her freezes her mid-reach.   
  
Cody turns around quickly, but finds everything in place. No serial killer with a fire axe or a pack of drunken teenagers. Everything is as it should be, except—   
  
Except the TV display beside the Clutch Nixon exhibit. Rather than showing the repeated clips of stunt jumps, it’s just showing thick bars of static. Occasionally, an image of a motorcycle or plane peeks through, but the static drowns it out accompanied by a low electric drone.   
  
The imaginative part of her brain wants to make a big deal out of it, and comes up with too many explanations that come from so deep in left field that they might as well come from the next field over. But the rational part, the part that held dominion during her time in highway patrol, simply groans and makes her walk over to the display to where Tracey pointed out the small DVD player hidden behind one of Clutch Nixon’s oversized trophies. She turns the player off, and through the static, she sees that now there’s just a message in the corner of the screen reading CHECK INPUT. She decides to make a note of that for tomorrow morning, although she guesses that might be a regular occurrence.   
  
Virgil seems to think that his museum is an offshoot of the Smithsonian, and so officiously left a spiralbound notebook in the security room, titled _Security Log_ with a label maker sticker. Cody sighs as she walks back into the security room, opening the notebook and looking up at the clock on the monitor in order to give an official-sounding timestamp to the DVD complaint.  
  
Instead, she freezes, right hand and pen hovering above the notebook, all thoughts of the DVD player completely gone.   
  
Because on the grainy monitor display of pioneer room, someone is looking back at her _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
